Mom
by MisterMitty
Summary: Just for Mother's Day. Special thanks to Tamara for conversation inspiration.
1. Chapter 1

The dishes were done but Shane was stalling, standing with her hands resting in the soapy water, eyes closed and a very peaceful smile on her face. Technically, what she was doing might have been called eavesdropping, but it wasn't. Three feet away, on the opposite side of the window in front of her sink was her porch swing, squeaking happily to be used. Her mother sat in that swing, alongside the man she had chosen to give her heart to. So technically, it wasn't called eavesdropping, it was called 'caring'. Her eyes were closed, holding back tears which the smile on her lips said were of joy, not hurt. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, loving the moment, loving the joy and the two people on the other side of her window. "Oh God," she sighed softly. "Thank you. I love this man."

From the smallest room at the farthest corner of her mind, came a quiet, "You're welcome." The whisper had started speaking soon after she had started praying, especially when praying while surrounded by explosions. She had known at the time that it wasn't an odd thought or an imagining on her part. It was something else. Mostly because Whisper was brazen enough to disagree with her, and sometimes even tell her "no". The Chaplain she had met while under fire, had shown her the scripture and she had enjoyed it so much, she now paraphrased it and claimed it for herself. "And behold, the Lord passed by, and explosions tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the explosions; and after the explosions was gunfire, but the Lord was not in the gunfire; and after the gunfire was loneliness, but the Lord was not in the loneliness; and after the loneliness was a still small voice."

"Do you understand what is happening?" Whisper asked.

Hands deep in soapy water, Shane listened to conversation outside.

"How do you like living in Denver?" Oliver asked.

"It isn't what I expected at all, not what I'm used to, but beautiful."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I grew up on the east coast and lived in flat lands my whole life. To turn and see mountains jutting upward at the edge of town is, well, it's stunning." Oliver was leaning back into the swing, his right arm on the backrest and his hand just behind Mary's shoulder. "I love living with Shane, seeing her every day, being included in her life. There is a feeling of completeness to it."

"So what was she like? As a child I mean?" he asked. Mary turned and gave Oliver a one eyebrow up and the corner of her mouth twisted into a smile. "Oh," he said, "I see where she gets that." They both laughed and Mary leaned closer to Oliver so that his hand was touching her shoulder. It was an act of communion and he didn't flinch at all.

"I can see why she likes you," Mary said. "Shane was always stubborn, very curious and very bright. I remember the day that I went into the kitchen and found two dozen roll-up bugs on the floor and Shane with her little magnifying glass studying every one of them. Always way too smart for her own good sometimes."

"It wasn't all humor though, was it?"

Mary stared at the porch, rocking back and forth. "When her dad left, she cried every night for months. That man broke her heart. I could read it in her face for years after, she was wondering what she had done wrong to drive him away. But that was a question she was never able to answer so she blamed everyone else. God took the brunt of her anger. She even yelled at the Pastor at our church during a sermon once and walked out. She has so much love to give but it all got shut away."

The porch swing squeaked and the two sat in silence, listening to the night. "I remember the first time she talked about you just a month or so after she started working there," Mary said. "I was surprised by how open she sounded. That was new. I think she trusted you and it surprised her. Then Christmas came when you rescued her necklace and she really began to relax. I think she was falling in love with you," she whispered the last. "Now, you tell me one, about the work you two do."

Oliver chuckled and gave Mary's shoulder a squeeze. "I remember the day we met and I know what you mean when you say stubborn I wanted to call her Cheryl and not Shane to avoid that one line of dialogue from an old movie."

Mary laughed again. "The way Shane told it, you spoke that line that same day."

Oliver chuffed. "I did, and in so doing proved her penchant for resistance. "Therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that when I come to woo, I fright them.""

"Shakespeare, well said Mr. O'Toole."

"You recognize the Bard. I like you Mary McInerney."

They both laughed and the swing squeaked. "Your story," she reminded him.

"Oh. The first lost letter we worked on together was about a young man wrongfully imprisoned. Shane decided that she was going to get him out. She even quit her job out of frustration and walked out. My favorite moment came half an hour later when she stepped in front of the home where that young man lived and suddenly realized that I was waiting across the street behind her. Watching. The look on her face when she turned and realized that someone had managed to keep up with her was priceless."

Mary laughed out loud and the swing squeaked. "The word she used was 'shocked'. "Tell me of your divine delivery theory?"

Oliver sighed and looked up at the stars. "It took only one letter for Shane to begin to believe, although she resisted for months. But God uses us sometimes in remarkable ways, using lost and damaged mail to work His plan. I think that was the lesson she loved, that God doesn't use perfect letter, He uses the hurt ones. Miracles? Yes, more than once. You coming to live with her is just another example."

"How do you mean?"

"Your illness and surgery, the gift she gave to you, brought you back together. There is a promise there, of sorts. It is recorded in the book of John that when Jesus looked down from the cross, His biggest concern in those closing minutes of agony was for His mother. He told one of His disciples to look after her. That is sort of OliverSpeak – as Shane calls it – to say that you can relax here, you will be cared for and taken care of."

Mary turned to face Oliver. "Do you love her?" Shane laughed softly to herself when Oliver stuttered, sputtered and tripped over a tongue tied firmly behind his teeth. "Have you told her, Oliver?"

"Not in so many words, no."

"Let me give you head's up, Flash. Shane's father was the same way. Never wanted to talk about feelings or face them." She reached out and tapped his chest with one finger. "That is her fear, Oliver, never knowing. Point is, neither you nor Shane come from a Hallmark family," she shrugged. "That cannot be changed but it can be overcome."

The both sat back and let the swing do what swings do for a few minutes. "Who is Flash?"

Mary laughed and gave him an odd look. "Flash the Wonderhound? Never heard of him?"

Oliver just shook his head. "I have been iso – uh. Well in the interest of full disclosure, I isolated myself." He shrugged. "So isolated that it has only been recently that I began watching action movies. So no, I have never heard of Flash the Wonderhound."

Mary laughed loud and leaned into Oliver. "Oh Oliver, so smart, so dumb. Pick any puppy from a litter and name it Lightning and you get the slowest dog from the litter. Ergo, Flash the Wonderhound."

"You just used the word ergo in a sentence."

"Oliver, do you know why computers are so smart?"

"I suspect guile in the question, but the answer is I don't know."

"Because they listen to their motherboards."

"Oh," Oliver mumbled. Then, "Oh!" and smiled.

"Do you understand what just happened?" Whisper asked Shane.

Hands deep in soapy water, Shane wept, nodding.

"What did you hear in his voice when he said, "Oh?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do. Oliver has never known what it is like to have a loving mother, to sit beside compassion and know peace, to be loved just because he is. Now, what did you hear?"

"He is using the same tone with her that he does when he talks to me," she sniffed.

"Reverence," Whisper said. "Yes, and love. Listen, here comes the best part."

"Oliver, I have seen the way you and my Shane look at each other and I think it would be ok if you called me, "Mom".

Oliver wept and reached to take Mary's hand. Shane left the sink and went to hug them both.


	2. Father's Day

Being a dad is not easy. Just the thought conjures visions of Whitman Samplers and a perfectly roasted turkey with all the festive accoutrements. Whitman Samplers are a moribund notion – pun intended and if you don't get it than you are much younger than I am – and that perfectly done turkey is Mythos Americana, a contrived notion – that word again – we use to comfort ourselves around the darkest epoch of human misery, six weeks of holiday season to end and begin each year.

I am dad. Mostly. An archaism, but my heart tells me I am a dad even if my voter ID does not. Oliver, that's my son, tells me to trust the timing. I remember the sentiment from church days long ago but still haven't decided if that is a different mythos or just more turkey. Oliver is all about trusting a divine delivery. A notion suitable for a Whitman Sampler resplendent with notions of thread, fabric and ribbon. What can I say, I love words and the nuance of notions.

Papa Joe O'Toole laughed at his own pun. The silver haired patriarch stood on the ledge at the back of his property, facing a view of snowcapped peaks gently hazed by distance. But his eyes were closed and the view he watched was a mental one of a park, a slide, and a little boy afraid to let go. The beer held gently in both hands was long since warm, neglected by reflection. Father's Day was just around the corner and the dad who claimed Oliver O'Toole as his own was hoping and longing to celebrate the day for the first time. Shrouding both sentiments was the fear that it would not happen. Again.

"The race is not to the swift, Nor the battle to the strong, Nor bread to the wise, Nor riches to men of understanding, Nor favor to men of skill; But time and chance happen to all fathers." Papa Joe paraphrased. I am not a fan of "time and chance", he thought. To me it's always seemed like putting the glove of trust on the wrong hand.

"Push me daddy," said a laughing memory on a swing. The words raked across his mind like Freddy Kruger's fingers, then the tears the old phart would never admit to wet his cheeks. Joe took a sip of the warm beer and immediately spit it out. Exhaling slowly, he pushed the reverie aside. The sound came out as a single breathy word, "Oliver".

Time and chance. Not always bad. A year ago I was alone and wondering if sanity was worth holding onto. Then I got my son back, along with the troop he seems to have collected along the way. Last night, dinner at the Grille with Oliver, Norman and Rita, Gabe and Hattie, and of course the always surprising and irrepressible Ramon. Joe laughed to himself and tipped the bottle in his hand to flush out the warm beer.

What a bunch.

Joe smiled at the faint aroma of 'Bombshell', a Victoria's Secret perfume. If anyone finds out that I even know that name this old pahrt will have to move out of the state. "Hello Shane," he called out without opening his eyes or turning around.

I heard the gasp of surprise and was delighted by it. Not many are sharp enough to get one step ahead of that blonde. Shane is the reason that I have my son back. When he resisted my return, she resisted his resistance and flat pushed him towards me. But he needed it. Shane McInerney is the living divine delivery of Oliver O'Toole and a lot of fun besides.

"Joe?"

I hesitated just a bit longer to make sure my eyes were dry, then turned and smiled. "Welcome to your first visit at the ranch. Let's go over here."

I led her to a small patio between the deck and the garden and waved to a Barco Lounger while I pulled two cold beers out the cooler. Then watched carefully for what happened next. Perfect, I thought when she twisted open the bottle and took half, then wiped her mouth.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked. "Was that a test to see if I would drink it?"

"Yes it was." When her mouth twists like that at the sides, she is gnawing at the solution to a unasked question. When her eyes brightened, I knew she had it.

"Did Oliver have a beer when he came up here first time?"

"He opened one," I laughed. When her eyes sparkle like that I know exactly why my son is crazy about her.

"Where is Kathy?" she asked, still laughing.

"She had to run to town. She'll be over later." I was watching the wheels turn behind her eyes and knew she was up to something. But as is normal with Shane, it took some urging. So I started.

"Oliver and I have spent many hours sitting in these two chairs, talking about many things. One of those subjects has been you." That surprised her and I was not sure why.

"Me?"

"Did you know that Oliver considers you to be his best friend?" She blushed, she actually blushed.

"The reason I mention that is to ask you a question you do not have to answer."

"Go ahead," she said, sipping her beer.

"Did you really open the letter that Oliver wrote to Holly?" I nearly regretted asking when she choked on beer and rolled her lips under her teeth and clamped her mouth shut. Then she stared with wide doe eyes and I knew she was not going to answer.

"'Women seem to accept secrets as part of romance, turn love into a competitive sport. But it isn't." Again with the doe eyes. "Remember the day I first showed up, looking for Oliver and I found your card on the floor?"

She nodded.

"That day Oliver and I sat in the park talking, and what I remember clearest is watching his face when he learned the truth. It hurt him. Not the knowledge of what his mother had done so much. What pained him was the knowledge that no one loved him enough to be honest with him. Not his mother or father or even me, the dad who still loves him. He might not show it, you might not see it, but Oliver knows when he is being lied to."

The silence that followed was long, but I felt that it had to be, to let her think. Most women would have thrown the bottle at me, but Shane didn't. So we sat side by side staring at the mountains, saying nothing and saying lots at the same time. That silence was mutual respect.

"What was Oliver like as a child?" she asked suddenly.

It was my turn to choke on beer and I did a good job of it. "Oliver was shy, sort of a forced reticence. After his mother left, he shut down and has been holding love in for a lifetime. There was no first crush in high school and I think the joy of puppy love was wasted on Dale Travers. Then there was Holly and, well, she was – ."

I turned in my chair and found her watching my face, so I smiled, and pointed toward the garden. "Do you know what a Serissa Foetida is?"

"Serissa not," she laughed.

"The Serissa Foetida," I laughed with her, "is commonly called the Christmas Rose in some parts of the world. It is a very difficult flower to work with and needs constant attention to bloom."

"Did you know I met her?" Shane asked.

"Holly?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Shane grinned from ear to ear. "Beautiful but the type of woman that loves attention."

"I Serissa already knew that," we laughed together.

"Look," I said and scooped up a handful of soil from next to the patio. "You and Oliver are like four kinds of soil." Her eyes lit up and I knew she was connected to the thought train. "Do you know why you can't plant a garden on a path?"

"Soil is too hard."

I gave her a big smile for points, got to my feet, pulled her up by the hand, and led her into my garden.

"Yes, hard packed soil. Now if you plant love on that soil it won't take root so the birds come and eat it. That's where you and Oliver have been for most of your lives, standing on the path watching the flipping birds take everything away from you.

"Now, stop here," I said and reached down and picked up a stone from between the path and the garden and gave it toss over the fence. "Some soil has stones in it, so the seed might spring up quickly and looks great at first, but that person is too shallow for love, true love, to take root. So it withers and dies. That was Holly."

"Sounds like Steve," Shane mumbled.

"Maybe we should introduce them to each other."

"No," was all she said.

"Look right here," I said to the weed growing next to where the stone had been. "Weeds. Some soil might look good, but there are already seeds in there, seeds of weeds. So love gets choked out by the thorns of life and it dies. That is sort of like where you and Oliver have been for the last two years. Love is trying to grow, but stuff keeps getting in the way."

Her face was beaming now. She understood, even knew what was coming next. "Now," I said carefully, holding her gaze with my own, "take just one step, just one." Together we stepped and were in the garden. "This soil has been well cultivated and is ready to receive the seed. Do you see it?"

Shane sipped at her beer, then stepped sideways to lean against Papa Joe. "Oliver and I have both been cultivated for the months while I was gone. We are the good soil. So what is the 'one step'?"

"We'll get there in a minute." She was looking at me with amazement and I'll admit, I might have glowed.

"Where did you get all this?" she waved around us.

"The Bible, Mark chapter 4. Most of the New Testament is all about being either a soldier or a farmer. Go figure."

"Did Oliver ever tell you that you are a great father?"

For a second, I was back there at the ledge where she had found me and had to struggle to stop the tears. I did not answer her question. "As it turns out, there was another man named Joseph that was destined to love and raise a son not his own. As I recall, that Son turned out ok too."

Way too sharp that one, she was dissecting me with her eyes and I knew she was reading me like an open book.

"So how is it going with Kathy?" she asked.

"Trust the timing. That is why I was standing out there," I waved toward the ledge.

Shane moved to stand directly in front of me. I had allowed myself to be trapped and knew it.

"Sup' Joe?" was all she said.

I couldn't help it, I laughed. "Mostly good."

"Mostly?"

"Well, I like Blues and guitar and she likes Bolero and Scheherazade."

She reached out and gently punched my shoulder. "That's good though. Bolero is very passionate music."

"So is House of the Rising Sun."

"Papa Joe, you need to ask the right question."

"What's the question?" The grin she gave me was pure mischief.

"Does she feel like a voyeur when she listens to Bolero?"

I will not kid you, that thought had never entered my mind but once Shane had said it, well – it was stuck there. Just like that, a completely new side of Kathy was revealed to me. Like I said, way too smart that one.

"Wait there, I have a treat for you." I went inside and got the treat I had been saving for the day she came to the ranch.

"Oh Joe," she gasped as I handed her an iced cappuccino in a bottle and a spoon and pulled the lid off a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Cherry Fudge. Then like to fencers, we touched spoons as if they were rapiers and attacked the ice cream.

"Joe," she asked suddenly around a spoon filled with deliciousness. "Will you adopt me?"

"I don't think that will be possible."

"Why?" she blinked.

"I would rather have you as a daughter in law."

That's when I knew the truth of Shane McInerney. She did not freak out, did not fidget or even flinch. She smiled and I knew that the subject was already in that blonde head. "I suspect that you are here today under false pretenses," I said, returning her smile.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you just told me a great deal without saying a word."

She nodded. "Why did you ask me about the letter to Holly?"

Touché. "Because," I said, staring her in the eye. "I wanted to know if you were as brazen as Oliver thinks you are." I could see the shock in her eyes, and then the fear as if I thought badly of her. "Shane, that wasn't a judgment. I only ask because of Mad Dog O'Toole."

"Joseph Lindley's father? The Pony Express rider?"

"Exactly. Ever hear of St. Brigid of Kildare? Or Queen Margaret of Scotland?"

Shane gasped loudly, obviously stunned. "You are not suggesting that!"

It wasn't a question but the passion of her response encouraged me. "Look, you can do a lobotomy on Oliver and that likely to be the only piece of his mind that you ever get, and still not discover his plans for you. So here is some fatherly advice, if you are going to love Oliver, take the step, stop wasting time and love him with your whole heart."

When I held out the little box she knew what was in it but not where it had come from. "That is the ring that Mad Dog gave to the love of his life. The story no one knows is that she proposed to him on Leap Year."

Shane stared at the box so intently I thought it might catch fire. It didn't, but she seemed to. Slowly at first, as if it might bite, she reached, then confidence took over and she took the box and slipped it into her pocket. "You knew I was going to be here today? How?"

"I didn't know. I hoped."

"I love you Mr. O'Toole," she said, giving me the brightest smile I had ever seen.

"And I love you Ms McInerney." It had to end with a hug. It had to. We were talking like father and daughter and had no apprehensions with each other about declaring that familial love. So the hug had to follow.

"Oh sure," a woman's voice called out. "I leave for a few hours and you take up with another woman. Hello Shane," Kathy said.

"Hi Kathy. Your timing is perfect."

"Hi dad," Oliver called out from the corner of the house where he stood with a very large cardboard box resting on one end.

"What's this?" I asked.

"This," Shane said, slipping her arm around me, "is a new O'Toole tradition. If you want to mark a special day or express love, you build a porch swing. Yours is in that box. Happy Father's Day."

"This was a set up?"

"Yes," she grinned. "It was."

I will never forget the wink she gave me and the way she patted the lump in her pocket.


	3. ML8 - ML8: A Special Day for Norman

Aristotle once postulated 'Horror Vaculi' and the cosmos trembled at the truth. The Postables knew that hypothesis, that is to say Oliver knew it, he just knew it in its English form, 'Nature Abhors a Vacuum'. Put another way, peace will always be filled by chaos, whether in physics or within the emotional environment of a man. Put still another way, the peaceful ambiance of the DLO was about to change, and the balance of the cosmos was already tipping in a very peculiar direction. It was not the sudden clamor that was only seconds away, that was normal outside the DLO. But that clamor would be the precursor to a very odd day.

The DLO was humming like the finely tuned machine the Postables had made it to be. Rita Haywith was hand sorting a large basket of DLO refugees into two smaller baskets; one for NHJBSs (No Hope Just Bury at Sea) and SW4Ts (Somebody Waiting 4 These). Norman Dorman had Phoebe Amidon under one wing and the two were finishing the reroute of a parcel that had been lost, badly battered and rescued. Phoebe, who loved spending time with Norman and Rita, was adding the postage to the rescue. Shane McInerney was clacking at her computer and laughing from time to time, and mumbling, "How do you like my cascading cache invalidation now? Huh?" Oliver O'Toole was finishing the DLO Weekly Report with one eye and watching Shane with the other just because he liked watching Shane. Every few minutes she would look up and their eyes would meet. In those odd moments the cosmos would shudder happily with approval.

"Norman," Phoebe asked, "why is the DLO so peaceful?"

"It's the Dead Letter Office. Dead letters don't bother anyone." He tipped his head to one side, listening intently. "Unlike the living ones," he added. "Brace yourself."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Beware the Jabberwocky, Phoebe. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch. And I left my vorpal blade at home so the creature won't be slain today. We'll just stand silent and hope she doesn't notice us."

As promised by Aristotle's plenism just seconds before, the doors of the DLO were suddenly thrown open to crash into the walls with an impact that shook the floor. A large wheeled cart was thrust into the DLO by Floor Supervisor Fuentes, eyes of flame and burbled attitude. On the cart were half a dozen carefully wrapped flats, all 4' x 5' and 4" thick.

"Sit!" Fuentes hissed when Oliver stood. "Go make coffee. McInerney! Here! Now!"

The sigh of irritation Shane made at being interrupted was audible all the way to the door, giving Fuentes a sudden case of 'one squinky eye syndrome', a malady not see since the days Inspector Clouseau had tormented the hapless Chief Inspector Dreyfus.

"These flats arrived at Denver Post Office but the manifest has been damaged," Fuentes held up half a sheet of paper and indicated a badly shredded edge. Shane and Fuentes stared at each other, both knowing that the Floor Supervisor could have picked up the phone and called the Post Office of origin to get the delivery details but didn't want to. "So now this is the problem of the DLO, Missy." Fuentes raised one eyebrow, a challenge, then handed Shane the partial shipping manifest when she stopped next to the flats.

"I will get a guy right on that, Supervisor Fuentes," Shane said, giving the woman a smile so syrupy it could have stuck a bus to the street and handed the manifest to Oliver.

The doors banged open again as Fuentes stormed out mumbling, "You people drive me batty."

"Short trip," Rita said softly, looking over Oliver's shoulder to read the manifest.

A blood curdling phrase shouted in the hallway outside drifted back into the room, "Off with their heads."

"The Red Queen is the bad one," Norman whispered. "She is preeminent and likes to tell all the other characters what they are allowed to say and do or she feels threatened."

"And do?"

"And, double do," Norman grinned.

"So what is her problem?" Phoebe asked. "Did someone in the warehouse give her a wedgie?"

Oliver looked away lest Phoebe see his smile. Then, "Norman told me that you will be needing to find a 'commercial internship' for your Sociology Class next fall. So I arranged it so that you could have your internship here with us."

"Way cool," Norman said as Phoebe and Rita clapped their hands with delight.

"Wait," Phoebe said. "Fuentes would never go for that."

"She didn't," Shane said. "So we went over her head to my friend Becky in D.C.. That is why the Red Queen's cookies are frosted."

"You're in kid," Norman said. "You're almost a Postable now."

"Jabberwocky, really Norman?" Oliver asked, clearing his throat.

"Well, at The Home, Alice and her books were favorites. The older cousins would always read them to the younger cousins. Phoebe said she is reading the first two books in school." Norma shrugged. "Just helping her see the story outside the covers of the book."

Shane rubbed her shoulder affectionately against Oliver. "What do we have here?"

"Apparently this," Oliver said, laying his hands on the flats, "is the Charles Kingsleigh Lepidoptera Collection. I suggest we try – ."

"The Denver Museum of Nature & Science. Already done my dear Mr. O'Toole," Shane said. "I – well, sort of peeked in the system and found the original manifest. All we need do now is deliver it."

"Peeked Ms McInerney?" Oliver put his face next to Shane's ear and whispered, "You always amaze me, Shane."

"The Denver Museum of Nature & Science is a municipal natural history and science museum in Denver, Colorado. It is a resource for informal science education in the Rocky Mountain region," Rita recited from memory. "We'll have to borrow one of the USPS vans to get these there. I'll go round up some keys."

"What's a lepidoptera?" Phoebe asked.

"The Lepidoptera is an order of insects that includes moths and butterflies. One hundred eighty thousand species of Lepidoptera are described, in 126 families and 46 super families, 10% of the total described species of living organisms," Rita recited from memory as she walked back into the DLO. "I have keys," she said, jingling them. "Let's head em' up and move em' out."

The Mail Van was not built for speed or for comfort. It was built for utility with a wide open back that easily accepted the Charles Kingsleigh Lepidoptera Collection with room to spare. In addition, what the Mail Van was perfectly suited for was the pleasure of three friends on a small tour of the Wonderland sometimes called Denver. Rita drove, allowing Norman and Phoebe to gawk and laugh at characters on sidewalks.

"Norman! Look!" Phoebe cried suddenly. "It's the Hatter."

Norman laughed. "That's nice Pho – wow! It is the Hatter."

The man hurrying along the sidewalk was tall, lanky, dressed in blue plaid trousers, a pink shirt with yellow bow tie under a dark green green vest, a very long jacket of an orange so bright it hurt the eyes to look at it, and bright green very large top hat four sizes too big pulled over a mop of curly red hair.

"Wow," Rita said. "That is some get up." She slowed and pulled to the curb as Norman rolled down his window.

The man turned and faced them. "I'm late, I'm late for a very important date," he said then took another step closer to Norman's window. "I know that line belongs to Nivens McTwisp, but I need to borrow it just now. I really am very late. Can you give me a lift?"

"You're the Hatter!" Phoebe exclaimed.

"Yes," the man smiled. "I'm afraid so, entirely bonkers. But, all the best people are," the man smiled. "But for me, only for today, the matinee performance. And I am late."

"Where to?" Norman asked as he reached back and popped open the side door of the van.

The man tipped his enormous hat, "The Amphitheater at Washington Park, only four blocks that way. You are welcome to stay for the performance."

Rita laughed. "Can't. Have a delivery to make."

"Besides," Phoebe added, "the Jabberwocky might find out."

"What lesson did we learn from that?" Norman asked as they pulled away from the curb and turned toward the Museum again.

Phoebe stared out the window for several blocks, thinking. Then her face brightened and she smiled. "Don't judge books – or people – by their covers. Take some time to get to know them before throwing them under the bus. People will often surprise you in the nicest of ways if you just give them a chance."

Several blocks passed in silence as three pairs of eyes watched with anticipation for what else might surprise them this day. Then, "Oh," Rita said. "What do those two remind you of?" In the block ahead were two girls, on one either side of the street, each waiting at a bus stop, one to go east and the other west. Both were wearing dark red jumpsuits, bright yellow blouses with a blue bow tie, and a dark blue toque.

"Tweedel Dum and Tweedel Dee," Phoebe said. "But why on different sides of the street?"

"They appear to be twins," Norman said. "But are obviously having a disagreement about which bus to take. They dress alike to give the illusion of a matched set."

"It's called enantiomorphism," Rita agreed. "They are purposefully trying for a three-dimensional mirror image of each other. But they are not mirror images. Look closely."

"One looks to be happy and the other seems to be very upset."

"Two different mind sets with identical bodies and faces. Oliver calls it the double mind. Take a good look, Phoebe, and notice the differences. There is a lesson to be learned here. There was once a small yard that was home to two large dogs who were identical to each other in every way except attitude. One dog was angry, mean, prideful, and arrogant. The other is happy, peaceful, serene and compassionate. In that same yard was only one dog dish and only enough food for one of the dogs to eat. So of the two dogs, which one was strongest?"

As the van passed by, Phoebe stared closely at the two girls, first the angry one on the left, then at the happy one on the right. "It isn't fair," she said at last.

"What isn't fair?"

"The strongest dog is the one that gets fed.

Norman slipped an arm around the girl to encourage her. "But that is the lesson Phoebe. There is nothing fair about life. Nothing. There is no such thing as a life free of pain. The choice you make is what to do with that pain. Every day you write the book of your life by the choices you make. You choose to be angry or peaceful, mean or compassionate, arrogant or quiet, every choice defines who you are."

"I could choose not to grow up."

Norman and Rita both laughed. "Many make that choice," Rita said. "That's where the generation of the entitled came from. Most end up working in politics. Look at the mess that has gotten us into. Do you want to be that screwed up?"

Phoebe laughed and settled back in her seat. "I see it. No, I don't want to be that childish."

As the van passed a grove of trees near the Museum, a rabbit broke from the brush and dashed across the road. Rita braked hard to avoid the animal.

"The March Hare," Phoebe laughed. "That's like the March Hare."

"Her name is Haigha in the books," Norman said.

"Mad as a March Hare," Rita recited from memory. "Idiomatic phrase derived from the observed antics, said to occur only in the March breeding season of the Lepus europaeus. The phrase is an allusion that can be used to refer to any other animal – or human – who behaves in the excitable and unpredictable manner of a 'March hare'."

"What does that mean?" Phoebe asked.

"A March Hare is a slave to impulse, undisciplined, crazy.

"That one might be cousin to Lester Kimsicle," Rita mumbled.

"Who is – ?"

"Never mind Phoebe," Rita added.

"What's the lesson?" Phoebe asked Norman.

"Wisdom," Norman replied. "Crazy is why we try to pass wisdom along to you. From wisdom come justice, judgment, equity and prudence, and when you keep those close, the March Hare will be far away from you."

An hour later the van had been returned to the warehouse and the Postables were filing back into the DLO. Someone unexpected followed them in, a bright blue butterfly that hovered around Phoebe for several seconds and then came to light on Shane's computer.

"Oh my," Shane exclaimed. "What is that?"

"That is a Lepidoptera," Phoebe said.

"A Lepidoptera Nymphalidae morphini to be exact," Rita said. "Sometimes referred to as Absolem's Blue."

"You never cease to amaze, Rita," Oliver said.

Phoebe studied the butterfly carefully, smiling. "Why do you suppose it is here?"

Norman laughed and laced his fingers behind his head. "After this day it should be clear, I think. To quote Absolem's words to Alice, "Who - are - you?"

"What?" Phoebe asked, blinking surprise.

"Who - are - you?" he repeated. "Remember when your mom was missing and the kids across the street mocked your hope and tried to define it for you?"

"Yes."

"In the same way that they could not define your hope, the world cannot tell you who you are. A picture in a magazine or a talking head on social media cannot define Phoebe Amidon. That is something you must do for yourself, every single morning."

"To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man," Phoebe quoted.

Norman laughed. "I think Oliver is rubbing off on her. Phoebe, Alice said, "It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." That is truer than you know. You aren't the same person you were yesterday. Innocence and imagination that appears in the hearts of young children changes as they mature. They lose their 'muchness'. There is a scripture that spoke to me in a very special way one day, it said, "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope." If you walk with God beside you, Phoebe, you don't need 'muchness' because you have 'suchness' and the world is open to you and you can become a strong young woman."

"What will I do?"

"Whatever," Norman smiled. "With God's 'suchness', you can do more than six impossible things every day."

"But I am still young, and small."

"So was the caterpillar that became that Lepidoptera Nymphalidae morphini. It's all about trusting the timing."

"Hello all," Randilynn called from the door.

Phoebe rushed to her mother and the two huddled, whispering, with their heads together. Then Phoebe returned to Norman and handed him a card. It was a Father's Day card for a step-father, but the word 'step' had been marked out with a red Sharpie and the word 'special' written above it. "Father's Day is also about foster fathers, step-fathers, and even mentors that I call special-fathers. Thank you, Norman."

Norman looked like he was about to blubber and Oliver handed him his handkerchief. The Postal Detective dabbed at his eyes and opened the card. Inside was an illustration of Alice staring up at the caterpillar perched on his mushroom, with the message in flowing script below.

"Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality."


End file.
